Dreamscape (Poetry)

It is night in a strange city
the streets are river-wide and lit
with narrow beams of light from headlamps
rain slants down from a low-slung
blanket of sky as a solitary taxi
swishes confidently along.

There are few pedestrians this late —
only the odd loiterer in a doorway
and a dog-walker with his thin wet mongrel —
both look dejected and shiver — each
at the end of a piece of fraying rope.
Wind gusts fiercely around corners.

Shop windows are sinister dark mirrors
reflecting back whatever happens by —
glass layers image upon image
where pale blind faces of mannequins loom
caught in their private shadow-play
without words or music.

The upper floors of buildings disappear as lights go off
and rooms turn into secrets boxed in brick
all is barred and bolted — keeping out
the lone wanderer with no place to be
while others sleep — dream warmer —
minds locked in their own worlds.